“Nothing but a broken arm, eh, boys?” asked Mr. Bradlaugh, as the doctor tumbled out with his surgical case.
“That’s all, sir,” Frank answered.
“I didn’t catch the name over the phone. Whose arm was it? Not Hannibal’s?”
“No, Darrel’s.”
Bradlaugh’s face suddenly clouded.
“That young rascal, eh?” he muttered.
Frank was quick to catch the significance of Mr. Bradlaugh’s remark.
“You know something about Ellis Darrel, Mr. Bradlaugh?” he asked.
“I know that his uncle made a home for him, treated him indulgently in every way, and that he rewarded Hawtrey by forging his name to pay a gambling debt. I was sorry to hear that you’d taken up with the fellow, Merriwell, or that you were making room for him in the Ophir camp. He’s a wild one, and won’t do any of you much good.”
Here was an impression which Frank was determined to change for one of another sort. While Clancy and Ballard were helping the doctor set the broken arm, and while an occasional groan of pain echoed out through the open ranch door, Frank leaned against the side of the car and earnestly explained a few things to Mr. Bradlaugh.